Persist in your Grace
by Domysticated
Summary: I was that girl. Too beautiful, too imposing, too frigid to even appear human. The 6ft tall blonde whose clothes hang just so, whose hair is always perfect, whose perfection makes you feel silly and insignificant. Then something happened. For CurvyContest


**ENTRY FOR THE CURVACEOUS AND BODACIOUS BOMBSHELL FIC CONTEST**

**Story Name:** Persist in your Grace

**Penname:** Domysticated

**Rating:** M for lemons

**Genre:** Romance

**Pairing:** Emmett and Rosalie

**Total Word Count:** 6,500

**Summary: ****I was that girl. Too beautiful, too imposing, too frigid to even appear human. The 6ft tall blonde whose clothes hang just so, whose hair is always perfect, whose perfection makes you feel silly and insignificant. Then something happened.**

**A/N: My betas bring all the boys to the yard, and damn right, they're better than yours! Thanks to Hoochie, Team and Dawn. I love you hard, always.**

**The title comes from a Neruda poem, "Body of a Woman". My dream is to hear Rob recite it in his Edward Cullen accent. **

**Stephenie Meyer owns.**

o o o

I was that girl.

You know that girl: the one who's too beautiful, too imposing, too frigid to even appear human. The 6ft tall blonde whose clothes hang just so, whose hair is always perfect, whose perfection makes you feel silly and insignificant.

The one who's made for skinny jeans.

The one who looks at you from billboards and magazines, all sultry eyes and sexy poses.

The girl who who graces the arms of the richest guys, but gets no grace back.

The girl who's lonely and bored, who doesn't know pleasure from pain.

I was that girl. I didn't even know I could be anything else.

But now, something is happening.

o o o

First come the boobs.

Literally, out of nowhere, one day I have boobs.

I've never had boobs before. I have made a career out of being flat of chest, narrow of hips and hollow of belly, and I stare in fascination and horror at the flesh literally bursting out of my B cup bras and tops.

And they motherfucking hurt—who knew boobs hurt? No one ever tells you that.

I'm bewildered and slightly alarmed, but maybe it's just a temporary thing, maybe they'll go away again… maybe.

I wait it out, but they keep growing and people at work start giving me funny looks.

o o o

Then comes a hunger so fierce, so specific, so all-consuming it's all I can think about. My thoughts are unfocused, my actions nonsensical, and I struggle to place this new-found need and give it a name.

There is an emptiness inside me that makes me dizzy and physically hurts, and at first it's terrifying. Food is not something I ever thought about but I realize with a startling clarity that I need to feed. Now. Like a vampire craving blood, I wake up in the middle of the night gripped with the total certainty that I will not last another minute without it.

I pull a coat over my PJs and literally run to the 24 hour convenience store at the corner of my street; I roam the aisles like a woman possessed until my eyes find what I didn't know I had been looking for. Call it a supernatural instinct, but I find it.

My own personal brand of heroin.

The work of gods.

Ben.

And.

Motherfucking.

Jerry's.

Phish Food.

Fuck me sideways, I'm in heaven.

o o o

I spend a lot of time in this particular heaven, becoming intimately acquainted with the frozen food aisles of most shops in my neighborood.

The boobs keep growing, and they're not the only thing that does. Soon all my clothes become too tight: jeans don't zip up, skirts ride too high on my waist, and my tops are an embarrassment. Fabric chafes against my skin painfully and I give up on underwear altogether, reveling in the softness of my yoga pants and stretchy tank tops.

The looks at work become even more pointed and there are whispers and warnings, but I don't care.

It's like I'm not even me anymore.

And so the next thing that comes is a not-so-gentle kick in the (rapidly expanding) butt, as I'm told that "my looks no longer fit the vision of the brand".

I suppose I should care at this point, and I do, sort of. I cry a little and sit on a park bench for a while, briefly pondering what I'm going to do next. But it's fleeting and it doesn't take me long to pull myself back together again. Something is definitely wrong with me, because for some reason this all feels so completely right and I can't worry or sulk too much. All I can think of is how much I'll be able to sleep and how wonderful it will be not to have to wear make-up for days on end.

As I make my way home, the inviting light of the supermarket casts its welcoming glow over the pavement. I make my way in, as if in a daze.

My lovely friends Ben and Jerry make everything better that night, and they introduce me to their associates Oreos and Pringles, too. I fall asleep in front of the TV and sleep for twelve hours straight.

How had I not known about this sweet, sweet life before?

o o o

The next thing that comes is the orgasms. Oh, the orgasms…

Let me qualify.

I don't immediately place them as such because, you see, before now I had no idea what an orgasm felt like. Yeah yeah, whatever. Never had a single orgasm in twenty-six years and never once wondered what I was missing.

You can't miss what you don't know, right?

So the first time I wake up— yes, you read that right, I was asleep… you wait a quarter of a century for it and then it happens while you're sleeping. I know, right?- So anyway, I wake up with this intense, tingling, delicious feeling in my lower stomach and a fluttering, pulsating sensation in between my legs and—fuck!— I'm all wet and sticky and I feel more relaxed than I ever have. And then I remember the dream…. Oh! The dream!

And the dreams keep coming. Asleep, I seem to have sex with every single man I've ever met and a few women, too. And I come, actually come- not dream come, you understand- every single night.

I come, and come, and come.

Bliss.

Except soon it's not enough and I wake up wanting more. And more. And more.

And so it happens that I, Rosalie Hale, at the age of twenty-six discover the joys of masturbation. And what a joy it is! It's the first thing I do every morning, the last thing I do at night, and several times in between. I love my fingers and I love my boobs and I love, oh my god I _love_ my pussy.

Yeah. I'm the kind of woman who says _pussy_ now. As I said, it's like I'm not even me anymore.

Who knew life could be so wonderful, made of sleep, ice cream and touching myself all day long?

o o o

And then comes the helpful neighbor.

I'm at the store, queuing up to pay, struggling with a basket that is too full, fed up with the long wait. Finally my turn comes and I start packing my bags, ready to go. I turn around and there he is, all wide shoulders and towering height, standing right in front of me in a nicely pressed white shirt and a pair of blue pants, blocking my way, weirdly unmoving, and staring at my chest.

At first I'm amused—he is so obvious about it, and his eyes are wide open, like a kid at the candy store, and his mouth is hanging in a way that makes him look, well, a bit slow in the head. But then, as the seconds tick by and his gaze doesn't travel upwards, I get slightly irritated.

"Hello?" I finally snap. "I'm up here, you know?"

He blushes— this huge, gigantic quarter-back hunk of a a man _blushes_—as his eyes regretfully travel to mine and he mumbles a confused apology.

"Mh, sorry I… Do you need help with your groceries?" He talks fast, in a low, quiet voice that's so incongruous with his dominating posture.

"Excuse me?" I bark

He clears his throat and resumes talking.

"Yes…. hi, I mean I was here and I saw you and I, uhm, was wondering if you need help carrying your groceries home, you know?" He looks at me expectantly and I'm totally confused.

"Do I know you?"

"Yes! I mean, no… I mean maybe not…. But I know _you_, I'm your neighbor, you know, from the third floor? You might not remember me but I've seen you around… "

I guess I should say something at this stage but I'm not quite sure what. He seems so sure and so full of concern, and yet for all I know he could be a psycho killer. On the other hand…

"That's a lotta ice cream you got in those bags." His tone is factual, slightly surprised. I quirk an eyebrow at him and he blushes again, suddenly aware of how it must sound.

Whatever, I don't have time for this. "Have you got a car?" I snap at him impatiently.

He nods eagerly and that seals the deal. We speed home in his ridiculously tiny car and he carries my groceries all the way up to my door.

"So, you know… My name's Emmett... I live upstairs… just, you know, call me if you ever need anything, ok?" He leans against the doorframe, filling it completely. His eyes are so genuine and so careful never to stray below my collarbone, and it makes me smile: he looks simultaneously terrifying and absolutely defenceless.

"Okay, I'll keep it in mind."

I close the door behind him and hear him trudge up the stairs, and I wonder why I never saw him before.

o o o

I'm still in limbo, still disorientated as to what I'm doing and who I am, vaguely aware that things are not as they should, but it's as if my head is wrapped in cotton-wool. I struggle to find the will or the energy to go back into some semblance of normality.

I half-heartedly think about looking for work, but the thought of getting dressed and putting on make up makes me sick. I've lived in stretchy pants and flipflops for weeks, barely bothering to brush my hair, let alone do my nails or shave my legs. Moreover, let's face it: with the things my body is doing to me, with these boobs and this ass and this soft filled-up waistline, it's not like it'll be easy to get a modelling gig, and what else could I do?

It's bewildering, really. I've never had to try to be thin, I've never had to fight to be beautiful. It all came naturally, so I have no idea what to do about this new me. I just assume it'll all go away eventually and life will resume just as it did before.

But the days tick by and nothing goes back to the way it used to be.

o o o

In the days that follow I keep crossing Emmett on the stairs, on the landing, in the foyer. I wonder how it's possible that I've never seen him before. We say hi awkwardly and he looks at me with those big kind blue eyes of his and I think he wants to say something, but he never does.

He leaves for work early, his clothes neatly ironed, his brow furrowed. His shirts are too tight around his shoulders and he looks uncomfortable in his tie; when he comes home at night, eleven or twelve hours later, his tie is loosened, his top buttons undone, his crumpled shirt unevenly tucked in. He always looks exhausted, like someone who's been operating heavy machinery or lifting boxes all day long, and yet his clothes speak of office work, the expression on his face of a different kind of stress. I wonder if he's a teacher, or a lawyer, or some kind of computer guy. I invent a backstory for him, colleagues and friends and dreams and aspirations.

Then my fantasies take a different turn. I picture him as he comes home, pulls off his tie, opens his shirt and drops those boring Chinos. I imagine his long, muscular legs and his broad chest as he walks to the bathroom and shuffles out of his boxer shorts to reveal the tightest, most perfect ass there ever was and a cock so perfect it makes my legs clench together and my panties sticky.

Daytime fantasies merge seamlessly with nighttime activities: my dreams remain as steamy and lusty as they have been for the past few weeks, only now they always have the same protagonist. I wake up in the morning dissatisfied and frustrated, and my teasing, taunting fingers, although increasingly adventurous, barely take the edge off my obsession.

Every night it gets worse, and between that and the hot weather I find myself wide awake most nights. I then spend my days exhausted and cranky, falling asleep at three in the afternoon and waking up, confused and hungry, in the early evening.

I have an issue. And the issue is becoming a problem. And the problem is that it's becoming blatantly obvious that ice cream and my own hands are not enough anymore.

I need to get laid.

Actually, effectively, thoroughly laid.

I told you, it's as if I'm not me anymore.

And so it is that on a particularly frustrating Sunday night, having tried and failed to sleep, having tried and failed to get myself off, having showered and redressed and lain on my bed and tossed and turned, I find myself completely wet and completely fed up.

I make my way resolutely up the stairs.

It's almost midnight but I don't let that distract me from the task at hand. He did, after all, say to ask him for help if I needed it, right?

I knock on the door insistently and hear movement inside. Impatient, I knock again. He opens it and looks stunned to see me. His hair is messier than usual, his curls damp and untamed, and his cheeks are covered with stubble. He's wearing a pair of sweat pants and an old, tattered t-shirt. I take it all in and I like what I see—he's so much more attractive like this than in his conservative work clothes, so much closer to my fantasies of him.

His blue eyes are wide and his mouth is wider.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" I blurt out in a breathless voice.

"What? No…"

"Good. Are you gay?"

He's shocked and it takes him a minute to form the words.

"No! Of course I'm not gay. What… Are you okay?"

I don't really need anything else at this stage: I pounce on him, pinning him to the wall, forcing his face to mine and literally attacking his mouth. He's so surprised he offers no resistance, and it's weird at first, but God, so good. He tastes so unexpected, slightly bitter; his scent is intense and genuine, with sweat and life in it and it turns me on so much I think I'm going crazy. But his lips are incongruously soft and his cheeks are rough and God, I need this so bad.

It takes him a second to recover and gently push me back, prising his lips away from my mouth, holding me at arm's length.

His face is a picture of confusion: his eyes are full of concern and surprise, but his lips tell another story: they are parted, trembling, wet and visibly wanting.

I hesitate for a second, considering the possibility of rejection, briefly pondering whether this is a huge mistake. I think that if he was to turn me away now the shame would never leave me, and I think that perhaps, perhaps I still have time to leave and pretend none of this ever happened. But his hands on my shoulders are warm and firm, and he smells so enticing up close and his voice, when he finally speaks, is low and deep and ready to capitulate.

"Are you sure of this?"

I don't need anything else. I push him back against the wall, grip his shoulders and kiss him again, even more forcefully this time, while pushing his legs slightly open with mine and grinding against him in a way that leaves no room for misunderstandings. He responds quickly, hardening almost instantly and I'm liquid desire at this stage, more turned on than ever before.

We kiss and fumble and reach for clothes in jerky, awkward movements, and then he pulls and I push until we somehow reach his sofa, never stopping our kissing and impatient touching. He leaves me standing there as he runs into a room nearby, presumably his bedroom; I hear the frantic opening and closing of drawers and he returns just mere seconds later clutching a string of wrapped condoms. He grins sheepishly as he puts them down on the sofa and leans in to kiss me once again, his hands going straight inside my pants this time and kneading my ass with confident, greedy movements.

I can't wait anymore: I reach for this trousers and pull them down to free his rock-hard cock. I pull back, curious to check out whether it measures up to my fantasies, and – oh dear God—he's even bigger and harder than in my wildest, wettest dreams. I moan loudly and I push him down in a sitting position, then yank my own trousers and panties down and lean in to straddle him. I hold back up just enough to grab a condom and slowly, ever so slowly, roll it down on him. Once I'm done, I grab the base of his cock with one hand and cup his balls with the other. I stroke just once, and then I let go of him altogether.

It's his turn to moan now, and I tease him for just a few delicious seconds, hovering just above him, forcing him to lift his pelvis in order to reach me. Then, just before sinking on to him, I grab his face and direct it to my chest; his eyes close as he complies with my unspoken command, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking forcefully.

I almost come there and then, undone from the combined feeling of him filling me and stretching me and licking and biting and digging his fingers into my ass. I will myself to control my orgasm, determined to stretch this mind-numbing pleasure out for as long as it will last, and start riding him for all I'm worth, lifting then slamming my ass down on him with an intensity that mirrors my desperation.

"Oh God, oh God, oh…. baby!"

Judging from the inarticulate, throaty sounds he's making he's not far behind me, and I spur him on, gyrating my hips now, throwing my head back so my tits bounce freely in front of his eager mouth.

"I'm… I'm… OH FUCK!" His cock inside me pulsates and throbs and he shivers as he comes. I follow suit within half a second and I scream—scream so loudly I'm sure everyone in the building can hear me—as pleasure courses through my whole body, so intense I almost black out.

Afterwards, we lay spent, side by side on the couch, our clothes back on. We're sweaty and sticky and, well, quite awkward. I try not to think of the fact I'll never be able to face him again after what I've just done, and I'm planning how and what I will say to get out of here with some dignity intact, when I feel him turn to me and clear his throat. When I face him I'm confronted, again, with those wonderful, deep, kind blue eyes of his.

"So…" he says with a tentative, sheepish smile that makes him look like a kid just caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I'm fidgeting with the drawstring of my trousers when he extends his hand toward me:

"I'm Emmett McCarty, pleased to meet you."

I grab his hand while relief and giddiness flood through me:

"Rosalie Hale. Likewise."

Over the weeks that follow, I come to know that couch, and that bed, and that kitchen counter, and that body, really quite well.

And who knew life could be this perfect, full of orgasms, greedy kisses, sweaty fucking and sweet lovemaking?

o o o

Then comes the realization.

A Sunday morning, in a greasy, anonymous looking diner that, Emmett assures me, makes the best bacon and eggs in town. A double side of hash browns. The Sunday papers. Coffee for him, extra orange juice for me.

"Gee, Emmett, how can you drink this shit, coffee here is disgusting!"

He looks at me funny while he pours himself another cup.

"I need all the coffee I can get, 'cos someone here kept me up all night." He looks beat, but really quite smug.

I woke him up at seven, climbing on top of him and grinding myself against his morning wood until he mumbled something incoherent and, still with his eyes closed, lifted his ass just enough for me to shuffle his pj pants down and slide him inside me.

I did all the work, but that's ok. In the few weeks since we've known each other it's become abundantly clear that Emmett is not a morning person: if I want morning sex he'll only contribute one thing, over which he has no control. The arrangement works beautifully, because it's exactly the one thing I want.

I rode him vigorously and it took me all of four minutes and twenty seconds (I timed myself with the alarm clock on the bedside table) to get off; he followed right through, with a grunt: "You'll break my cock at this rate, baby," he sighed as he pulled me down into his arms and forced me to get some more sleep.

And now here we are, in what has quickly become our weekend routine, and I'm elbow deep in greasy bacon when he suddenly goes serious and stares at me intently.

"What?" I ask defensively, wondering what the hell has come over him.

"So… I hope you don't mind me asking but… who's the father?"

Now it's my turn to look at him funny. Why the hell is he asking me about my father now? Weird man. Perhaps it's one of "getting to know each other better" conversations. I guess we're doing this now.

I answer with my mouth still full.

"He was a policeman. But he's dead now."

For some reasons my words seem to have a devastating impact on Emmett: his blue eyes go all cloudy and he gasps as he reaches out a hand to cover mine.

"Oh Rosalie… I'm so sorry."

I'm puzzled by his reaction, but quite touched anyway. I hold his hand and shrug.

"Oh, don't worry… it was a long time ago. I was eight when he died. I'm used to it now."

I wish I could describe what happens to his face then: his eyes go huge, his mouth hangs open, and his hand goes limp in mine. He stares at me for at least a minute, then opens and closes his eyes several times and withdraws his hand. He runs it through his curly hair and the distress on his face is freaking me out.

"What? What's going on? What did I say?" I'm disorientated and slightly panicked. This is so unlike Emmett.

"Rosalie…" he begins, but then closes his mouth and fixes a spot behind my shoulder; I turn around to see what he's looking at, but there's only a beige wall and a stack of old papers on a chair.

"Rosalie…" this time his voice is surer, more confident. "What I mean is… who is the father of the baby?" This time his eyes do not waver, but still I have no idea what the hell is going on.

"What baby?"

And then his eyes do that thing again, that thing where they go all soft and full of concern and his hands encircle both of mine and hold them tight. And his voice, when it comes, is so tender it breaks my heart.

"_Your_ baby, Rosalie. You do know you're pregnant, don't you?"

The words take a while to travel from my ears to my brain, and it's as if I'm suddenly surrounded by a thick, milky fog: time stands still, and at first it's almost impossible to understand what's going on. But then it all makes sense, so much sense, so perfectly, impossibly obvious.

"Oh fuck!" is all I can say, as I stare at him in horror. "Shit. Fuck. Oh, motherfucking fuck!"

I withdraw my hands from his and they travel instinctively to my stomach, and fuck me sideways, of course, of fucking course.

"I gotta go." I stand up and pick up my purse and literally run out of the diner, ignoring Emmett's pleading calls. I run to the nearest pharmacy, pick up three different tests and then run home and pee on six different sticks, all at the same time, and it takes exactly thirty seconds for all of them to start flashing at me, line after line of pink certainty.

o o o

It happened during Milan fashion week; he was a photographer. We went for drinks after the shoot, and I guess I must have been tired, or a bit sick, or who knows what the hell was in that drink, anyway, because I got light-headed and dizzy far too early in the evening and my memories don't quite cover the whole night.

We had quick, perfunctory sex in his hotel room and I was on my way home in a cab before midnight. I went to bed, woke up with a headache and forgot all about it.

It was that forgettable. I don't know his name, I don't know his nationality, all I know is that he had a small dick and, apparently, a high sperm count.

I should have given him a blowjob.

o o o

Then come the practicalities.

The doctor is middle aged and sympathetic, unfazed by the fact I've only just realized I'm knocked up. He takes my blood pressure, makes me pee in a pot, and makes me step on the scales. When I see the number I almost fall off, but he smiles wordlessly, and jots something down in his file.

A scan reveals a perfectly formed five months old future baby-boy.

I walk home in a state of shock that night, holding my hands on my stomach all the way, amazed that it's been there this whole time and I had no idea. I get home, undress, stand in front of a mirror for a long, long time.

Where I was hollow, I am now filled; where I was angles, I'm now rounded; where I was small and pert and taut I'm heavy and bouncing and overflowing. I run my hands on my full breasts, down my waist, over my belly that is so obviously, obviously bursting with life.

I guess I am not me anymore, after all.

That night Emmett knocks on my door, and when I open it he's full of unspoken questions and unnecessary apologies. He looks at me expectantly, as if he's afraid I've broken or changed my mind. I smile at him and walk straight into his arms, and without needing to ask he knows he has to hold me and whisper sweet nonsense.

He takes me to bed and lies down next to me. "May I?" he asks as his huge hand hovers over my belly. I laugh, because he's touched me all over for weeks and has never once felt the need to ask for permission.

That night we just cuddle and talk and hold hands while we fall asleep.

"Don't get used to this," I grumble as sleep claims me "It's not like now I'm pregnant I'm gonna want to stop riding you."

He chuckles and says something in response, but I never get to hear it as I sink in a deep sleep.

o o o

Turns out that Emmett has a sister called Alice "who always knows what to do".

She shows up on a Friday afternoon, pulls me into a tight hug as if we've know each other forever, then waltzes into my apartment and takes charge.

She digs out all my designer clothes, many of which I've never worn and probably never will, and manages to sell them all to a friend of a friend who has a vintage boutique downtown. She takes me shopping and, most importantly, she gets me a job modelling maternity clothes.

And, just like this, everything falls into place: I have money, I have clothes that fit, and I have a man upstairs who claims I'm the sexiest woman he's ever seen naked and who fills every night with the most delicious pleasure I could have ever dreamed of.

As my belly grows we have to get creative: we shift sideways, backwards, upside down, but none of it matters as long as he can reach that special place inside me that makes me moan and scream and come undone.

And as I keep growing and expanding and stretching, the little person inside me starts kicking and punching and filling me with a longing so sweet I could have never, ever dreamed it could possibly exist.

o o o

And finally comes the fear. Unadulterated, blinding fear.

It comes out of nowhere on a Saturday morning. A Saturday that starts just like any other, with me lying next to him, half spooned, half suffocated by his massive arms, his cock already waking up behind me.

I, on the other hand, am woken up by my pathetic excuse for a bladder. I disengage myself from Em's vice-like grip and ignore his semi-awake grunts as I try to get off the bed with as much grace as I can muster. I'm doing really well until a loud, ripping sound resonates through the silent bedroom.

The unmistakeable, unignorable rumble of a massive fart.

And it doesn't come from Emmett.

Horror courses through me and I pray that he didn't hear it, but clearly there is no God, because his booming laugh leaves no doubt as to whether he's awake or not. I turn to look at him, a furious blush creeping up my face and I guess he must find me really, really fucking hilarious because he's now laughing so hard he's snorting.

"Nice one, Rose!" he manages to bellow through loud guffaws.

He tries to reach out for me but I'm so humiliated I run—well, fuck me, I wish I could run, I waddle—to the bathroom and lock myself in.

Tears of frustration, sobs of shame, big, shuddering, debilitating waves of humiliation wrack through me. I sit on the toilet crying so much I feel my stomach contract painfully… and here it is.

The fear.

I'm just a pregnant, unmarried, barely employed loser.

No, scrap that: a pregnant, unmarried, barely employed, _fat_ loser.

I can't fight it anymore, and my crying is now full blown wailing, so loud I barely hear Emmett pounding on the door.

"Okay, Rosie… let me in. Come on baby… open the door."

He's shouting at first, but then his voice goes all soft and caring and, guess what? Even more tears.

After a few minutes of pleading and cajoling he goes silent and I hear him walking away.

I guess he's gone now, disgusted and scared. I guess he's finally come to his senses. What was he doing with me anyway? The thought is strangely sobering, and slowly the tears stop and my breathing returns to normal.

And then I hear it again: another knock on the door, gentle this time, and his voice, steady and sure:

"Rosie… I made you a hot chocolate."

Another knock.

"With whipped cream."

Fuck. Fuck, I want. I want it so badly. "And marshmallows?" I ask in a tiny, hoarse voice.

I can hear him chuckle through the door.

" 'course baby. Marshmallows."

I open the door slowly: he's standing there in his old chequered boxer shorts and a tattered grey t-shirt with some dorky faded logo, his eyes full of tenderness and care, his smile tentative and hesitant, and a travel size mug with 3 inches of whipped cream poking out, and right now…

"Gimme." I grab it and drink it greedily, slurping it down right there where I stand in the middle of my messy bathroom.

When I'm finally done I dare myself to look at Emmett.

"You ok?" His hands reach up to my shoulders and hold them firmly: they are so warm, so big. God, God I love these hands.

I nod and sniffle, willing myself not to cry again.

"What's wrong, Rosie?" he puts a finger under my chin and tilts it up, calling my eyes to his.

"Go on, princess. Tell me."

"What's wrong? Seriously? Can't you tell?" I want to provoke him, to get him to say something he'll regret, but he doesn't take the bait and stays absolutely still.

"THIS is wrong!" I point at myself. "I'm so fucking… I have these huge, cow-like drooping boobs! And an ass the size of Wisconsin! And… fuck! I've got an alien monstrous freaking belly! And, and… and this kid is going to rip me open and I'll be all ruined and deformed forever! You're only here because you pity me!"

Hysteria tinges my words but still, still he doesn't flinch. Instead, he traces one finger gently under my eyes, one at a time, wiping away the tears. Then he grips the thin straps of my tank top and slowly slides them down, exposing my breasts.

"These," he says in a low, low voice and his hands cover my breasts, palming them softly, "these are what I dream about every second of every day."

He slides his hands down, stopping to stroke my nipples so, so lightly, but enough that they stiffen and ache, sending a wave of want straight down my pussy.

I whimper.

His hands travel down then move back to my behind and finally stop to rest on my ass.

"This," he squeezes it hard, and my eyes go all blurry, "this, baby, drives me wild."

Another whimper and his hands continue their downward journey, back to my front, sliding my tank top over and down, so my stomach is exposed.

He kneels down and his touch on my belly is firm yet delightfully soft.

"This," he places a feathery light kiss right on my prominent belly button, then gently runs his nose from side to side. "I can't stop looking at this. It looks so beautiful on you."

My legs are wobbly and his fingers hook over my now bunched-up tank top, slowly pulling it down together with my shorts.

He kneels further down and I want to die, I think I'll die of wanting him.

"This," he kisses my pubic bone. "This," one side of my inner thigh. "This," the other side. "And this," and his mouth, his lips, his tongue reach out to the core of my throbbing desire for him and I'm moaning now, gripping his short, soft curls.

"I'm in awe of this. If I had a pussy like yours, Rose, I'd never stop bragging about it. I don't pity you. I fucking worship you."

He plunges back in and I'm moaning so loud it's almost a scream.

"And you're horny all the time," he says as he lifts himself up. "What have I done to deserve you?"

He kisses me hungrily on the lips before turning me around toward the mirror.

"You are so, so beautiful Rose. Look at you. Just look at you."

And I look.

I see wild hair and puffy red lips, and full womanly breasts and round arms and a full, blooming stomach.

And I see a handsome, rugged man, his arms holding me up, his eyes hungry and hooded, and I see his want, and I want, and I want, and I want.

He bends me over the sink and before burying his mouth into my hair and his cock into my pussy he looks me straight in the eyes through the mirror.

"God, Rose, God I love you."

It takes us all of five minutes to come undone, loudly and messily and with our eyes wide open and locked into each other's, and he is right: we are so, so beautiful.

Afterwards he takes me back to bed and kisses me softly all over. He takes each of my puffy fingers between his lips in turn, and when he gets to my ring finger he lingers and sucks on it longer than all the others.

"I'll put a ring on this, baby."

"A really big one, you mean. Fit for sausage fingers." I attempt a lame joke, but my eyes are veiled and I'm so fucking happy I want to start crying all over again.

I feel him smiling against my hand, before letting it go.

He touches his forehead against mine and I notice, for the first time, that there are tiny golden specks in the blue of his irises.

"A really, really big one. Perfect for this perfect sausage finger."

I close my eyes.

"Okay."

o o o

I am that woman.

You know that woman: you see her riding her bicycle with a kiddie trailer behind her every morning, pulling her kids to day-care through the quiet suburban streets.

She's the one who wears boot cut jeans that have been washed too many times; she wears flowing, flowery tops that reveal a generous cleavage and hide the stomach that never quite went back to what it used to be. Her hair's in a ponytail and her nails are short and bare, and she wears flipflops and trainers and she could do with losing a few pounds, but, gee, those toddlers cookies are going to be the death of her and she'll stop tomorrow, or the day after, oh what the hell, probably never.

She's the woman who's always running, always late, always carrying too many things in oversized bags yet somehow always runs out of wet wipes.

She's the one whose house looks like a bombsite, whose underwear has seen better days, and whose bed's population includes, at times, two children under three, a stuffed dog, a live cat and four pacifiers besides its intended occupants.

I am that woman.

You don't know that woman, you don't know the things that matter about her. You don't know that sometimes, at night, after peace descends on her house and her man plops himself on the sofa, exhausted and spent after a day that never seemed to end, he pulls her down on top of him and kisses her as if it was the first time.

You don't know the joy, the thrill, the different yet still overwhelming pleasure of stealing sex and orgasms and intimacy in unexpected moments, in unexpected places, the giddiness of still wanting each other, of wanting each other more every day because our lives are every day fuller of the life we've created.

I had a body before, a body that many coveted and desired, a body that was, by some fortunate coincidence and by some arbitrary standards, perfect. A body that knew no pleasure, had no purpose.

Now I'm softer and fuller and heavier and different; now I know what my body is capable of, the vehicle and instrument and recipient of so much love and so much life and so much joy.

Now I am a woman.

o o o

**A/N: do you know just how hard it was to write a story that's (almost) completely angst-free? Well, let me tell you. VERY So please let me know what you think!**

**Emmett's declaration of love to Rose's vjj comes from Ina May Gaskin's "Guide to Childbirth", a book that every woman should read, whether she's planning to have kids or not. **

**I had a special friend in mind when writing this story; she knows who she is, and she knows I love her and wish her all of this (and more).**

**o o o**

**Voting is now open! Please go to http: / www. fanfiction. net/ u / 2729331 / CurvaceousAndBodacious# to see all the amazing entries in this fabulous contest.**


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